That day wasn’t love.
It wasn’t sensual or passionate.
My repeated no and stop its did not mean ‘convince me’.
My pushing at your shoulders as hard as I could manage was not me playing hard to get.
I was scared.
I was frightened.
Frightened of you.
My smile afterwards and telling you everything was alright was misplaced love, and only that.
My hiding it away was misplaced love, and only that.
My worrying about you was misplaced love, and only that.
Me finding my voice is regaining control, not attention.
Me telling the truth is right, not wrong.
You are in the wrong, not me.